Best Served Cold
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: When Molly Hooper asks for his help with a case, Sherlock doesn't want to get involved. He'd rather not deal with the fallout from her broken engagement, thank you very much. But since he's the only person Molly can turn to, and since it involves Tom "Meat Dagger," Jenkins being a git, he reluctantly agrees to help. Not his wisest decision, that...
1. Best Served Cold

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read, so all mistakes are mine. This plot-bunny grabbed me and wouldn't go away, will post the other half over the weekend if I can.

* * *

**~ BEST SERVED COLD ~**

* * *

She comes to him two days into the new year, and four days after he has ended Moriarty for good.

It is also exactly five months since she last spoke to him- _Not that Sherlock__'__s counting_.

She knocks shyly, enters with no more than a murmured, "hello." Looks up to check that John is present- as she requested- and reacts with visible relief when she sees that he is. The doctor comes forward, takes her coat and offers her some tea as Sherlock watches impassively; he's not sure what he expected but her hurried, shy greeting is rather less than he wanted and the thought brings an unwelcome lurch of… something to his chest.

Not, he thinks, that he'll be focussing on that now. _It wouldn__'__t be prudent. _

Especially since Molly Hooper has asked him to take a case for her, and especially when he knows that any fondness she may have had for him is long gone, destroyed that day in Bart's when she slapped his face.

The thought of it still smarts slightly.

So he dismisses his feelings, watches through narrow eyes as she scurries over to the lit fire, setting herself uneasily onto 221B's "client's couch," while John prattles on from the kitchen. She holds her hands in front of the flames, warming them and nodding in acknowledgement of his words though she won't look at Sherlock at all.

Every so often she bites her lip, rubbing her hands absent-mindedly together even though it's clear that they should be warm now.

Her shoulders are hunched, body language stiff and Sherlock silently berates himself for noticing even that much.

After a moment Watson re-enters with a tray and sets it on the table, begins pouring tea for himself, Sherlock and Molly. As he does so he throws in every more inane little facts about the new baby, about Mary and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and it belatedly occurs to Sherlock that he's trying to set Molly at her ease. Sherlock can't see why he's bothering: Molly Hooper's hardly in unknown territory in this flat. And judging by her lack of makeup, her dowdy slacks-and-jumper outfit and her scraped-back, barely brushed hair she hasn't exactly made an effort to be here either. In fact, going merely by the bags under her eyes and the clammy, pale look of her skin she's still trying to work off the effects of the Christmas season's excesses, a notion supported by the grateful way she clasps her teacup and wraps her hands around it, letting it steady their shaking-

He's just about to ask her how long her hangover's lasted when he feels an elbow dig into his ribs, turns to shoot John an annoyed look.

_Don__'__t be a wanker, _his best friend mouths at him. _Say hello to her. _

More to annoy John than anything else, he elects to ignore that advice.

Instead, he dives right in.

"So, Molly," he says crisply, and if there's an edge to his voice then he certainly won't admit to it. "What can we do for you? You said you had a case for us?"

And he leans back in his chair, looks at her appraisingly. Makes it clear that he's not convinced she has anything worthy of his immense talents and miniscule professional time.

As often happens she reddens under his scrutiny but this time- This time she doesn't look back at him. Doesn't blink or stammer or even smile.

No, her eyes skitter over to the fire, stay there, fixed on the blackened grate.

She opens her mouth to speak- once, twice- before turning her attention back to her wringing hands.

"I have a matter which requires some… delicacy," she says after a moment. Two high spots of red appear on her cheeks, surprisingly noticeable despite the fire's heat.

Again, her hands wring together.

"Oh?" Sherlock inquires archly. "And what might that be?"

Molly winces as he speaks and the detective viciously squashes some small, shrill bloom of sentiment within him. She's the one who hasn't been in contact, she's doesn't get to go and make him… _feel things _when she hasn't tried. But he can't help the thrill of sentiment her reaction elicits him, something which in another man would be characterised as regret twisting in his gut.

After a moment she reaches into her pocket, pulls out her mobile phone and pulls up a text message.

She hands the phone to John, not Sherlock, but nevertheless gestures for them both to read it. It's dated a couple of days ago, sent on New Year's Eve and the sender is listed as Tom (presumably the Tom Molly was engaged to).

Sherlock is forced to read the text over John's shoulder.

_Caught the latest Metro article, Mols, _it says. _Enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame. But if you__'__re that anxious to be famous, I can help: remember this? _

And without prompting John scrolls down to an attached image; The picture quality shows it was taken with a cheap camera phone. It's Molly smiling and pouting at the camera, a sprig of mistletoe held playfully above her head. She's wearing a Santa hat and- And very little else.

_To say Sherlock is discombobulated by this sight is something of an understatement. _

John merely scrolls down enough to ascertain that she's topless, the doctor averting his eyes before hastily handing the phone back to Molly. The tips of his ears have turned pink and Sherlock's match them.

"So," John says.

"So," Molly replies.

The silence, awkward and horrid, stretches out a little more.

"I take it that it's not just photos?" John says eventually. She shakes her head. "And I take it he's not just sending them to you?"

Molly nods morosely. "Yeah. He's- Um, he's threatening to post them online. There's, um, there's a video…"

"Video?" Sherlock snaps back to himself. _He can__'__t have heard that right, Molly would never be so foolish. _"You allowed yourself to be filmed?" he demands. "You allowed that tosser to, to-"

He's not even sure why he's so angry.

Now Molly's eyes come to rest on him though. Now she looks annoyed.

"I let the bloke I was going to marry video me, yeah," she says defensively. "I thought he loved me. Getting engaged will do that." At Sherlock's continued, sputtering objections she rolls her eyes. "It was his birthday and I never dreamed he would- I mean, I know he was angry about, about you coming back and me not setting a date and that whole, stupid Shag-A-Lot Holmes thing-"

"What Shag-A-Lot Holmes thing?" Sherlock demands, speaking over her.

She glares at him, fishes in her bag and produces a newspaper. Thrusts it at him. The front page shows Molly, standing outside Royal College Hospital, London and staring up at one of the third floor windows. The headline proclaims: _Shag-a-lot Holmes__'__ New Girl In Bedside Vigil. _It's dated from the day of Moriarty's defeat, when Sherlock has indeed been hospitalised, however briefly, for a tediously minor amount of blood-loss.

He hadn't known that Molly had tried to visit him.

He feels rather uncharitable for his earlier behaviour, now that he's realised.

Another uncomfortable silence stretches out; Sherlock does not like how guilty he's feeling right now, so of course he handles it with aplomb. He attacks.

"_This _is the "Shag-A-Lot Holmes," thing?" he demands snippily, crossing his arms petulantly across his chest.

Molly gives one small, sharp nod to that. "That's one of them, yeah," she says.

"There are others?" He looks at John for clarification. "How can there be others? I would know if there were others-"

"Despite your persistent claims, you don't know everything," John says mildly but Molly's already scrolling through her phone, scowling at what she sees.

Again she hands the phone over- to Sherlock this time- and gestures for him to look at the screen.

It's a search engine results page, showing image after image of Molly in various outfits: Outside the Royal Hospital a few days ago, walking into Baker Street months before that. There's another photo of her published around the time Sherlock was shot by Mary, looking forlorn as she tries to push her way through a police escort and into the hospital. Someone who looks a lot like Donovan is refusing to let her in. There are several more of her alone on the street, obviously being pursued by cameramen as she tries to turn her head away; Tom is visible in the background of some of them, looking annoyed and harried. _Sherlock doesn__'__t blame him_.

The photos go back months, to even before his last drugs test and that ghastly morning when she slapped him. Seeing them brings a rather unwelcome whooping sensation to Sherlock's stomach, one which feels almost like… horror, though he won't admit that to anyone, least of all himself.

Instead he blinks up at her. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "You haven't been around to tell," she points out quietly. "You were out shooting people and getting banished." He winces and wonders who precisely kept her in _that _loop. "Besides, even if you were around- Being seen with you wouldn't exactly have helped matters, now would it? Anymore than you or Mycroft making threats would have."

And she rakes her hand through her hair, expels a deep breath.

When she looks at him, her expression is gentler. More hopeless.

"I didn't want to bother you when you couldn't make it stop," she says, more quietly. "It was awkward enough, you knowing how I felt and not returning it. Being dumped and you deducing it. Calling you and ranting about press intrusion would have been humiliating, not to mention useless, so I kept it to myself."

"But, but-"

"Look, I thought it would all blow over," she says, and her voice is barely audible. "I thought it would be fine and yes, I didn't want to get into it with you.

But if Tom's going to put stuff up on the internet then I have a much bigger problem Sherlock. I'm going- Oh God, I'm going to be famous. I'm going to be _in_famous. I'm going to be up on one of those revenge porn sites and everyone will see, everyone will, will laugh…"

She shakes her head, her voice cracking. Her shoulders curl further in on themselves, her body sculpted with her distress.

"The internet's forever," she's murmuring, "God, my friends, my brother, the lads at work…I'm going to be a joke…"

And she goes back to staring at the fire, her momentary burst of emotion having apparently drained her.

Her eyes look a little wet, not that Sherlock wants to notice that.

Her breathing's gone tight, hard, as if she's trying not to cry, not that Sherlock wants to notice that either.

Without any prompting his finds his hand going to her shoulder, however. Squeezing it. She looks at him in surprise at the comforting gesture and he finds that reaction cuts him a good deal more than he would like.

Another beat- Which Sherlock breaks.

"So," he says. His voice sounds a little more… involved than he intended. "You want us to steal Tom's phone and get the photos as well as any other recordings."

Molly blinks. Nods, looking surprised. _Rather an obvious deduction, really_.

Sherlock takes a deep, bracing breath. Steeples his hands before his face. If he wants to get through this, he will have to remain calm. _So_\- "Shouldn't be a problem," he says. "I'll attack the phone first- I'll need the make and colour, don't want Tom," his mouth twists on the name, "realising he's been robbed if I can help it-"

"Why not?" John snaps. He's glaring at the papers, looking livid. Apparently he hadn't realised Molly's recent difficulties either, and the thought makes Sherlock feel some modicum better. "The git deserves to have his phone stolen," he's saying. "The git deserves to get his arse kicked, trying a stunt like this. Besides, he can blame you all he wants but he won't be able to prove you stole anything-"

"That's not going to be enough though." Sherlock looks at Molly and she nods.

Clearly she's realised what he's getting at though John looks mystified.

"There may be other copies of these images, John," he explains patiently. "He may have backed them up, possibly onto an online server. I'd need to check his laptop to find out, something which will be easier if I have the machine itself. However, if he realises the phone has been stolen-"

"-Then he might go straight to the laptop and post the images from there," John nods. "I see what you mean. Meat Dagger's not that stupid." His expression turns thoughtful. "So I take it you're looking for a burglar?"

And he smiles slightly as it occurs to Sherlock what he means. _Or rather who. _"She'll be up for it, this soon after the birth?" he asks.

He should have realised that John would drag his wife into this.

Watson nods. "You bloody bet she will once I tell her what this wanker's been up to-"

And he too leans forward, squeezes Molly's shoulder.

"Don't you worry, love," he says. "We'll get this bastard, you see if we don't."

Molly nods, looks relieved. She even gives both men a wan little smile, so different from her usual, beaming grin that it makes Sherlock sad to see it. He looks away, poking absent-mindedly at the fire, rather than dwell on that. The rest of the meeting passes quietly, Molly filling him in on any pertinent information regarding Tom's habits, schedule and possible whereabouts-

It's an hour after John's left that Sherlock gets the text message.

_Please don__'__t look at the photos, Sherlock_, Molly texts. _Promise me you won__'__t look at them_. _I know it sounds stupid, but promise you won__'__t. _

Sherlock tries to ignore the text- Idiotic sentiment, so typical of Ms. Hooper, is what he tells himself.

But he finds he can't sleep until he texts her a negative.


	2. A Kind of Wild Justice

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read, so all mistakes are mine. Apologies for the delay in updating, I've been suffering writers' block of late. Thanks for their reviews go to WayTooEasilyObsessed, Rocking The Redhead, Equal-Opportunity-Reader, Poodle warriors, lavanyalabellle, kraftykathy, Hcolt, Icecat62, likingthistoomuch, ladyK1138, hatondog, keeptheotherone, AJP910, readxme, InMollysWildestDreams and Katya Jade. I thought that this was a two-hander, but it turns out it's a three chapter job. Will post as soon as I can and enjoy!

* * *

**~ A KIND OF WILD JUSTICE ~**

* * *

Picking Tom's pocket is remarkably easy.

Refraining from punching him, given what he's done to Molly, is, on the other hand, quite difficult.

So difficult, in fact, that Sherlock almost doesn't manage it.

He ambles up to Meat Dagger as he enters Hampstead tube station, confident that his disguise of peroxide-blond hair, hoodie and filthy scowl will keep the cretin from recognising him. It's a cold, dark afternoon, rain pouring from the heavens in sheets; every single commuter is clearly decrying their festive drinking and none of them are feeling particularly observant, by the looks of things-

It's why they don't notice that Tom's being trailed by a rather angry looking man.

It's also why they're highly unlikely to interfere, should Sherlock lose his temper.

_After all, helping your fellow man can be something of an extreme sport in London, and for that reason the average British citizen knows well how to keep himself to himself. _

Fortunately however- or unfortunately, considering how one looked at it- Sherlock manages to contain his feelings, instead effortlessly knocking into Tom with his right shoulder while lifting the mobile from his pocket with his right hand and depositing its (battery deadened) replacement. He can't bring himself to mutter an apology but luckily nobody will expect someone so obviously drunk to give one. _All the other passengers are giving him a wide berth._ Tom lets out a slightly annoyed grunt and stiffens, about, apparently, to throw an irritated look at him, or even, _bless_, start an altercation-

Instantly Sherlock tenses up, savagely happy at the opportunity to use the other man's words to exact some physical retribution on Molly's behalf, however unnecessary.

Perhaps it's the way he does it though, perhaps something in the situation warns Meat Dagger to back away and not pursue the matter; Whatever the reason the idiot stops in his tracks, ducks his head and shuffles to his right, away from Sherlock, mumbling an insincere, "Sorry," which nobody listening to could possibly believe.

"My fault," he mutters as he wanders away.

For a moment Sherlock wants to snap at him anyway, to snarl that he should be after what he's done, but obviously he knows such an action is impossible- All this cloak and dagger will prove useless should he tip Jenkins off. (And he doesn't want to think about how upset Molly will be if the bastard carries through on his threat and posts that ghastly footage he's taken).

So instead Sherlock mumbles to himself drunkenly, making a show of going over to read the tube map to his right. He watches Tom from the corner of his eye, waiting to see which direction train he gets on (he's going to Edgware, apparently) before getting onto a tube in the opposite direction.

He changes out of his costume in King's Cross and hops onto the Bakerloo line, heading for home.

When he gets to Baker Street he hands it over to Mary Watson- She thought it best to bring Meat Dagger's stolen laptop here rather than risk it being found in her and John's new place- and finds himself rushing towards the soothing presence of both his room and his violin.

He doesn't let himself think about Meat Dagger for the rest of the night, but that's not to say that the incident is far from his mind.

* * *

The evening passes without comment, Mary sitting in the kitchen and slowly working her way through Tom's laptop, Sherlock running through his violin scales with a great deal more interest than they usually warrant.

Every so often he'll hear a snort, perhaps a snapped, "Wanker!" from Mary but for the most part he leaves the new Mrs. Watson to her own devices and keeps his attention on his violin; Whatever laughter or jokes- or moans or sighs- he hears coming from Tom's purloined computer, he tells himself he has no business listening in.

_He promised Molly that he wouldn't look and he won't. _

When his attention starts to wander- or rather, when he can no longer pretend to himself that it's not Molly's voice he's hearing, breathing out endearments and pleas- he moves from his scales onto pieces, starting with Beethoven's reasonably easy Concerto in D major and eventually finding himself running through Ernst's variations on "The Last Rose of Summer." As a piece it has never quite impressed him but it's twisting, precise form mean he has little attention left over from it to think about what might be on Meat Dagger's laptop or phone-

After some time- maybe an hour or so- he hears Mary get up in the other room, stretch.

Soft footsteps pad to his door and he hears a knock but she pokes her head around the door before he can tell her yes or no.

"I'm getting Chinese," she said. "This particular specialist doesn't work well on an empty stomach- You want anything?"

The words are spoken quietly- Sherlock stopped playing when she entered- but there's something about the way she says them, the tightness of her eyes and mouth, the stiffness of her stance, which tells Sherlock that she's feeling irritated.

_There are times, _he muses, _when his gifts, polished and prized as they are, can be an absolute pain in the arse. _

"What has annoyed you?" he asks, rather than answering her inquiry regarding take away. A thought occurs to him, a shrill flash of alarm. "Have you found that something… unpleasant was done to Molly?" he asks and Mary nods tiredly, rakes a hand through her hair.

Without asking him permission she enters his room, flops on his bed.

"There's…" She sighs, shakes her head to herself. "There's a lot more footage of Molly than I think she's aware of."

Again that shrill twist of alarm.

"Oh?" Sherlock says carefully, now really sure what to do with that statement.

"Yeah," Mary answers morosely. His expression must show his worry because she sits up, trying belatedly to reassure him. "There's nothing violent or unpleasant, Sherlock," she says. "I don't think either you or I are going to have to beat the little weasel up. I just…"

Sherlock waits for her to elaborate, painfully aware as the silence spreads out that his chances of saying the right thing are not exactly optimal.

"There's more than one tape of her, for a start," she says eventually. "Molly only agreed to one but, well, Tom apparently didn't really care about that. There's at least three of them on that hard-drive, and one still on his phone- I think he must have taped the phone to the inside of their wardrobe, that's the only way the angle they're filmed at makes sense-"

Sherlock absorbs this knowledge, letting her voice trail off, something which might almost be… rage in another beginning to pool in his gut.

But it can't be rage, he doesn't get angry about things that happen to Molly Hooper now, does he?

_He looks at the upset on Mary's face, remembers the worry on Molly's, and he realises with a start that apparently he does. _

"So he was taping her without her consent?" he asks carefully and Mary nods. The rage within him tightens just a notch. "Are there… photos or is it all video?"

Something sharp and angry flashes across Mary's features as she nods again.

"Both," she bites out succinctly. "And it's not just when she's awake. There's a whole slew of photos of her in bed, asleep. He's pulled her top up or her pyjama bottoms down and you can see, well, everything…"

And she shakes her head, disgust drawing her lips back from her teeth in a snarl; For a moment her hands twist together and Sherlock is reminded, rather distinctly, of the woman who shot him to save her marriage-

But even as he thinks that an image blooms in his mind, lovely dark eyes and pale skin and soft, brown, silky hair, a thick plait slipping through his fist like silk. Sherlock frowns, unable to help feeling a little disgusted with himself for not being able to obey the spirit and not just the letter of Molly's request-

So he tries to concentrate, dismiss his musings.

That he is unable to do so is not something on which he wishes to dwell.

Instead he listens to Mary. "It's obvious that she didn't consent to those photos," Mary's saying now, a bitterness to her tone. "He just didn't seem the sort to… I mean Jesus, I felt sorry for the wanker-"

Sherlock blinks. "You felt sorry for him?"

He had never felt sorry for a moment that Tom was out of Molly's life, his obvious idiocy putting him far beyond the pale of suitable companions for the pathologist.

Mary's staring at him though, her expression quizzical. Shrewd.

For once in his life, Sherlock has the uncomfortable feeling that he's the on being dissected and he likes it not a jot.

"He was dumped the day after my wedding, Sherlock," Mary is saying. "And he spent the weeks leading up to that dumping being told by everyone he knew- including several major newspapers- that his fiancée was actually having an affair with you-"

Sherlock scoffs. _By now he's read those ridiculous Shag-A-Lot Holmes stories and he's far from impressed. _

"Well if he believed that, knowing Molly, then more fool him," he says. Now it's _his_ turn to shake his head. "If he knew her well enough to want to marry her then surely he knew her well enough to know she'd never behave in so heartless a way as that- And with _me,_ of all people…"

Mary's shrewd expression gets even shrewder, not exactly the outcome Sherlock was hoping for, so he attempts to turn her attention back to the matter at hand.

Suddenly he has the feeling that he is on very dangerous ground indeed.

"Besides," he says, trying to summon some of his old bravado, "are you implying, given those previously stated facts, that his frustrations make what Meat Dagger's done alright?"

"No, there's no excuse for what he's done," Mary snaps in an exasperated tone and he feels a warm wash of something suspiciously like relief go through him.

The source of that relief is not something he wishes to examine right now.

"Then why are we even talking about this?" Sherlock demands, before she can continue. "Why don't you buy your damn take away and get on with the job, eh?"

And with that he straightens, point sanctimoniously at the door with his violin bow.

Mary cocks an eyebrow at his attempted assertiveness but gets up and walks back to the kitchen nevertheless. Fetches her phone and calls the local Chinese.

She orders her favourite- and Sherlock's- then goes back to Tom's laptop, cleaning down it's memory. Looking through his online cloud drive until she can be absolutely sure that there's nothing left of his files before taking the computer apart and physically smashing the phone and the computer's hard drives.

She does this with a sort of vindictive glee of which Sherlock entirely approves.

Before she leaves that night she taps on his door one more time, presents him with a USB stick.

"This is for Molly," she says. "Can you make sure she gets it?"

Sherlock stares at the object, well aware of its probable contents, and nods. He regrets his words from earlier and Mary probably knows it but he can't bring himself to say as much.

"I'll drop it around to her flat tomorrow," he says instead. "Wouldn't do- Giving it to her in St. Bart's. Nowhere to watch it and she'll be- She'll be-"

Alarmingly, he finds it difficult to articulate how upset he thinks she'll be but he thinks Mary might understand.

The rest of his words are addressed to the bedpost at his right.

"I'll just drop it into her tomorrow night," he says instead. He wishes the look Mary were shooting him weren't quite so bloody understanding. "Give my best to John when you see him," he adds and Mary, for once taking the hint, bids him goodnight and heads out.

She kisses his cheek- something most unexpected- before she does it.

He finds the Chinese bagged up and left beside the microwave for him when finishes his practice, a small smiley face written on the paper back to show that he's forgiven for tonight.

But though he knows he's back in his friend's good graces the knot in his belly remains.

* * *

Night comes and then dawn, but he can't sleep, thinking about what's on that small stick of plastic. Thinking about what's been done to Molly.

The notion that Meat Dagger will just get away with this sets something gnawing at his gut and it simply will not go away.

To calm himself he wanders through his Mind Palace, finding the room in which he keeps his files on Molly. It is, as always, bright and softly lit, set up to resemble her workspace in St. Bart's, smelling of her vanilla and honey shower-gel and lavender shampoo. It's pristinely white everywhere and immaculately clean, a perfect analogy for Molly and her impeccable, implacable place in his life-

But tonight, it doesn't seem so spotless.

Tonight there's something… off about it that he can't quite place.

For tonight, in this supremely bright, soft room, there are… shadows. Things moving. Things _breathing_. Things calling to him.

He can hear voices, low and teasing, murmuring, and he can't quite work out what they say.

So he turns, frowning, looking around him for their source. He sees vines of ivy and wild rose, twining up around the legs of the autopsy tables, the armrests of the ergonomic office chairs. Blooms and buds spill over the tasks, yellow petals splashed like raindrops over the Spartan whiteness of the room and crushed into the carpet at his feet. Laughter sounds, gentle and teasing, coming from somewhere to his right and Sherlock follows it, wondering what is happening, wondering what new thing has made its way into his sanctuary-

He steps through the door which, in real life, he knows leads to Molly's office and he finds himself in darkness.

Frowning he looks around and, without his willing it to, his hand finds its way to the wall beside him, flicks a switch and bathes the room in light.

He's in Baker Street now, in his room, vine leaves twining around the frame of his bed, the door to his room; There are clothes, women's and men's, scattered across the floor and everywhere, everywhere, those yellow rose petals, deep and crisp as winter's first snow there beneath his feet. The room is warm, the air smelling of honey and vanilla, the place positively swimming in it-

He hears a soft gasp of delight, a breath taken. A shadow moves in his bed- is it one or two?- and someone lets out a long, lovely moan.

"Like that?" he hears his own voice say and he's breathless. Boneless.

He feels the thrill of it through every inch of him.

"Just like that, darling," he hears a voice, a woman's voice, moan the timbre of recognition setting something electric quaking through him-

* * *

Sherlock blinks awake, finds himself tangled in sheets and his own sweat.

He stares at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what he's just seen.

Molly's USB drive- and her situation- eats at him, but despite that it's a long time before he can force himself out of bed and into the world again.

He has a shower- a cold shower- and sets out for Molly's flat, the ghost of vanilla and honey still wafting through his Mind Palace and beyond.


	3. No Second Grave

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to ekho, likingthistoomuch, LadyK1138, theartstudentyouhate, Bucky5, Icecat62, InMollysWildestDreams, Rocking the Redhead, shazzykins, lilsherlockian1975 and Poodle warriors. I hope you ladies enjoy this...

* * *

**~ NO SECOND GRAVE ~**

* * *

By the time he gets to the flat, it's obvious Mary has broken the worse of the news to her.

It's also obvious that Molly has been crying, he can tell by slight, glassy puffiness of her eyes though he knows better than to explain his deduction. (Even he sometimes has the odd moment of emotional competency.)

She steps aside when she opens the door, motioning for him to enter though she can't seem to make herself look at his face-

For a second, a split second, Sherlock is tempted to reach out, to brush her cheek with his thumb and show her that she needn't be nervous of him, that there is gentleness still available to her, no matter what that miscreant Tom might have done…

As soon as the impulse appears though he suppresses it, unwilling to risk opening such a dialogue.

If he were to do that he's rather afraid that Molly might cry, or try to embrace him, or, or, do something else sentimental and uncomfortable, and he's not willing to endure that.

_It's not so much the things she'd do, _he tells himself, _as the way he'd react to them that would cause the trouble. _

_And she's had more than enough trouble already today, without having to contend with __**him**__. _

So, for her sake more than his he reigns himself in. Nods to her as he takes her invitation and steps inside. Her sitting room smells comfortingly of cooking and rosemary and lemon, the cooker rattling away in the corner.

"Rosemary chicken," she says even though he hasn't asked. "It's… My mum used to make it."

He nods. "Comfort food then?"

Something flashes in her eyes, too quick to catalogue, but she nods. Swallows. The next words are addressed to a point on his shoulder. "Thought it might be a good idea, all things considered," she says. "Would you like some?"

And she gestures to her kitchen table, already set out for a meal for one.

Sherlock opens his mouth to refuse- he never eats when he doesn't have to- but (quite without his permission) he hears his own voice say, "I'd love some."

Immediately he justifies this unexpected answer with the notion that giving Molly something to do besides be upset and feminine when he hands over the USB stick is probably a capital notion.

Whether she thinks so too he doesn't know but she walks wordlessly over to her main cupboard, pulls out an extra plate and wineglass, as well as extra cutlery. Sets them on the table.

"It won't be long," she tells him absent-mindedly, fiddling with the knife and fork, trying to line them up to some hidden, internal map or other. When she's got them as she likes them she moves onto the salt and pepper shakers. Then the napkins. Then the placemats. Then the butter dish.

Not knowing what else to do Sherlock, folds himself into one of her kitchen chairs, the rickety one he remembers from the night he spent here, after his fall. As he takes his seat Molly moves almost automatically to sit opposite him and now he sees the glass of white wine at her elbow, nearly drained. The bottle sits beside it- it's a new world sauvignon blanc- and it's almost empty too.

He glances at the clock almost reflexively but he doesn't need to- It's barely four in the afternoon.

He doesn't need to look in her bins to know it's the second one of the day.

He looks at Molly's wan face, that glass of wine held compulsively before her lips though she doesn't sip and for what feels like the millionth time in the last few days Sherlock finds himself wanting to track down Tom Jenkins and give him a good, sound beating for all the damage his behaviour is causing. He'd like to shake him until hiss teeth rattle, until he begs for mercy or pisses himself with fear, whichever comes first. Because he did this, he hurt Molly, he hurt a person who has only ever tried to be kind and good and, and _lovely_-

Sherlock finds this particular volatility uncomfortable- His is more usually a cold, calculating sort of anger but this feels volcanic- Uncontrollable-

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

He blinks to find Molly hunkered down beside him, frowning, one small hand pressed against his knee in reassurance as she peers worriedly up at him.

This time he can't help himself; Not waiting for permission from either Molly or his better judgement he reaches out. Takes Molly's face in his hands. Without quite understanding why he leans down and presses a quick, quiet kiss to her forehead. Leans his own against it.

Immediately she goes still.

For a moment they both stare at one another, a thousand sentences and demands and, God help him, sentiments flooding through him-

And then he shakes his head. _What on Earth was he thinking? _"I'm sorry," he mumbles, hating how inarticulate, how clumsy he sounds. Hating how clumsy all this is making him feel.

_He wishes he knew what to do here. _

Molly sits back on her hunkers, her eyes starting to turn glassy and hurt as she stares at him.

The words are blurted out before he can stop himself.

"I want to hurt him," he says quietly. Desperately. His hands fist at his sides, nails digging into his palms with need. "He hurt you and he has to, to-" he shakes his head, not even able to make himself say it. "Nobody gets to do what he did and not have to deal with consequences, do you hear that Molly? Nobody-"

"There were consequences, Sherlock," she said and her voice sounds sad. Old. Tired. "There are always consequences. We'll all have to deal with them."

And with one swift, graceful motion she gets to her feet, turns back towards the kitchen and the cooker.

She can't seem to make herself look at him.

He doesn't want her to move away from him and without really thinking about it he stands, follows her. He manages to stop a few paces away from her, suddenly unsure what to do.

There seems an ocean, a chasm between them and he doesn't know why.

At a loss he reaches into his pocket, pulls out the USB stick and takes her hand. She doesn't turn around to look at him as he does it, just keeps her gaze locked on the floor before the cooker, her back to him. More harshly than he intended he presses the stick into her palm, closing her fingers stiffly over it before going to move away, to leave her and this ridiculous house and all these ridiculous emotions-

He gets two steps before he feels her hand grip his sleeve, the motion forcing him to a stop.

He can feel Molly behind him, her breath sharp and hard and her grip, oh her grip is as strong as a vice. Strong as Spring.

"Did you… Did you look?" Her voice is tiny. She sounds almost like a girl and not the woman he knows, the woman he… He forces himself to admit it: The woman he cares about.

Sherlock has no idea why but there's something in her tone, something that twists inside him. It makes him want to stay, want to look at her. Want to comfort her. He just hasn't a notion how to do that.

"You asked me not to, so no," he says instead and it's ridiculous but his voice matches her, no bravado, no confidence in it.

He sounds like a boy and he hates it.

But he hears her let out a sigh and when he turns to face her, her shoulders have sagged, whatever tight, sharp, hateful thing was pulling them together setting loose. She breathes out then in, her eyes closed, two small tears tracking down her cheeks and he doesn't know why but he has the idiotic notion that he should wipe them away. Kiss them. Do something to clear her face of them because she's his friend and she's his Molly and he doesn't like to see her cry.

Instead he walks over to the kitchen table, pours himself a glass of wine. Even though he's moved she hasn't let go of his sleeve, her arm pulled along with him like the hand of a compass. (Would that he could be her True North but there's little enough true in him, of that he has no doubt.)

For a second she just stands there, eyes still closed, her back still to him though she has a fistful of his coat in her hands-

And then Sherlock reaches out and wraps his hand around her wrist. He feels the weight of it, the warmth. He can feel her pulse pounding beneath his grip, so vivid and alive that he feels a strange surge of gratitude for it.

Without saying a word he tugs lightly and she comes to his side, her face still pale, the ghost of tears still shivering beneath her lashes, but he ignores that.

Instead he hooks his foot out and pulls her chair towards him. Gracelessly he gestures for her to sit and when she does he nudges her wine glass over to her.

"You have in your possession the only copies of Tom's photos, and his recordings," he says quietly. _Business is probably safer to speak of than sentiment_. "Mary cleaned him out and if he so much as breathes about putting anything online then I'm going to have Mycroft threaten him with treason." He shoots her a sharp, hard smile. "You know it still carries the death penalty, don't you?"

At that Molly finally blinks. Looks at him. "How on Earth would that work?" she asks. "He can be charged under law for revenge porn but he can't-"

"He can if he's disseminating information about a subject of national security, which you are," Sherlock says quietly.

It might not actually be true but he's fairly certain he could talk Mycroft into it if push came to shove.

Molly stares at him for a moment, her lips wide, unbelieving. He seldom notices how young she looks but she looks awfully youthful now. _Awfully __**vulnerable**_. And then she smiles, just slightly, a tiny thing. A new thing. More of the tension goes out of her and beneath his grip- he belatedly realises that he's still holding her wrist- her pulse starts to slow. To calm.

He feels a ridiculous thrill of triumph, that he could do that for her.

They stare at each other for a moment, quite lost for words. But then-

Quite without warning she leans over and brushes a kiss to his cheek. (She still smells of honey and vanilla and lavender, of things that soothe and salve).

"Dinner should be ready in another half an hour," she says, taking a miniscule little sip of her wine. "Do you- Do you want to talk until then? We haven't-" She takes a deep breath, seemingly makes herself say it.

"We haven't talked in a long time, have we Sherlock?"

The detective stares at her, hears the opening in that question. The possibility in it. It's true- They've been apart for an awfully long time.

Far longer than he's ever wanted to be without her in his life.

So he gives a small nod, reaches out and drains the last of the wine into her glass. She's staring at him as he does it and he doesn't wish to think on why but he suspects his ears are turning pink? Maybe red. (Definitely red).

His tongue feels embarrassingly… sticky in his mouth.

"I take it this is your way of asking me to regale you with my latest feats of daring?" he asks though and when she smiles he feels a surge of pride. Of happiness.

It makes him feel quite exceptionally peculiar, to be satisfied with causing something not at all mayhem -elated.

"Well, never let it be said that I left an audience wanting more," he says grandly and this time she openly giggles; She's placed the USB on the table beside her but it's him she has her eye on, him she's given her attention to. Her hand stretches out, palm down on the desk, and almost of their own volition her fingers seem to be reaching for his.

He finds he likes it.

An image flashes through Sherlock's mind, Molly's room in his Mind Palace transformed to this kitchen, to this little flat, yellow rose petals and twining branches curling and running wild everywhere. That little hand in his and her breath in his ear. Her skin against his. _He supposes that's what his dream last night was trying to tell him_. There would be so much room in that, so much possibility and shadow and light and, and Molly-

Possibility and Molly are what he wants, he suddenly realises.

He wonders if they've been all he wanted for a long time, whether he let himself admit it or not.

So he takes a sip of his wine and begins retelling his last case, a rather intriguing matter of an American NSA prisoner who had somehow gotten away from his keepers in London and set about causing havoc. It will take more time to figure out how to make Molly want him too, he knows it. But he's fairly certain he's the man for the job. As if to confirm it- _asinine notion_\- she watches him and there's light in her eyes. A smile on her lips.

He likes that he's the one who put them there.

He spends the night at her house, falling asleep on her sofa with her o his chest and when she wakes up in the morning he finds her a hammer and watches as she takes it to the USB key. He even cheers, filming it for Mary on his phone (she'll appreciate it). Molly beams at him and then gestures for him to turn the camera off, something he cheerfully does.

He'll not have Molly trapped in sheets of electronics, there for anyone to see, anyone to spy on. He'll not have her as a flat image, a file to save or give away.

When he tells her she smiles that little smile from last night and Sherlock is rather horrified by how happy it makes him.

But not horrified enough to abandon her, and not horrified enough to not return it either.


	4. Dorothy Parker's Best

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read, so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

**~ DOROTHY PARKER'S BEST ~**

* * *

_Two years later,_

_Baker Street Tube Station _

Tom Jenkins straightens up, narrows his eyes.

It's summer in London and the glare from the metal-lined steps is blinding him, the heat stifling as it drifts into the Underground from above. His train is running late and he still hasn't gotten his flat key back from Magda, something which is going to make sleeping in is own bed tonight a bit of an achievement-

_Assuming of course that his darling girlfriend hasn't outright changed the locks, that is_, he thinks darkly.

After all, she swore she would and she has a nasty habit of following through on her promises, has Magda…

At the thought he gives a long-suffering sigh.

He's frustrated enough that he's contemplating just going back up onto the street and finding somewhere to have a quick pint for an hour before trying the trek home again; He hasn't touched in with his Oyster Card so it's probably a good idea.

He spins on his heel, his path chosen and as he jogs towards the Marylebone Road entrance he sees two figures wandering down the stairs before him into the station. One is strangely familiar. Female. Petite. _It takes him a moment to realise it's Molly Hooper_. She's wearing a sundress, sandals and the most massive sunglasses Tom's seen outside of an Audrey Hepburn movie, whilst at her side-

At her side is Sherlock Holmes.

_The_ Sherlock Holmes.

(Tom would know those bloody curls and that smug grin anywhere).

The detective is still wearing his might-as-well-be-a-porn-star-they're-so-tight suits and that ridiculous hat, what's it they call it? A Sherlock Holmes' hat? No, a, a, deerstalker, that's it, Tom thinks. A deerstalker hat.

He looks like an utter pillock.

Not that Holmes seems to mind though: He's also carrying an ice-cream cone in each hand; As soon as he gets to the bottom of the stairs he shoots Molly a stern look and she takes one of the ice-cream cones, grinning and then giving it the tiniest, most suggestive little lick-

The back of Holmes' neck, just visible at his shirt collar, turns absolutely scarlet and he quickly links his arm through hers, shaking his head and urging her towards the Metropolitan line as he does so.

"Behave yourself, woman," he mutters, "or I'll tell Mummy," and at that Molly breaks out completely into giggles, her laugh every bit as lovely as Tom remembers.

It makes him feel sad in a way he doesn't wan to admit.

Arm in arm- and completely ignoring him, which is for the best- both Molly and Sherlock head quickly towards the platform below, smiling and holding hands and licking their ice-creams. They touch in their Oyster cards, Molly having to root around in Sherlock's jacket pocket to find his while he licks his ice-cream with suggestive vigour and waggles his eyebrows at her.

The sight of her smiling makes Tom feel a little sick to his stomach.

It's about five minutes later when Tom's phone buzzes. He has a text.

It's been sent from a withheld number.

_Keeping you distance was wise, _the text reads. _See that you keep that up and we won't have any problems, will we, Meat Dagger? _

Tom doesn't need to ask who it's from. He really doesn't.

And he finds he doesn't want to contemplate why Sherlock Holmes might still have his phone number, even after all these years.


End file.
